


the gutter and the garden

by miriya



Series: the land between tides [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Gore, But Nyx did, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Pre-Canon, and Cor did not enjoy himself, cor's annoyance is endless, especially when they're crushing, kinda sorta, lucian magic headcanons, regis is a goddamn troll, teenagers are embarrassing, that time Cor and Regis went to Galahd, wholesale bullshit instead of thoughtful world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: A wary Cor escorts Regis to Galahd in an effort to reassure an abandoned territory that Lucis has not forgotten its people.   More importantly: how Regis personally won Nyx Ulric's loyalty, and Cor found himself an unasked-for admirer -- one who isn't above seizing an opportunity, years later.





	the gutter and the garden

**Author's Note:**

> So, this beastly little thing sort of spawned out of me working on a canon-compliant cornyx manifesto of a fic for Chase, and realizing I'd been sprinkling a few hints of a prior meeting in Nyx's youth ... that I just went with, because I guess I have zero self-control. Easy enough to tie in with whatever mysterious event happened that led to Regis saving Nyx's life, right? Yeah, but I'm not gonna lie, it's mostly that I super duper wanted to write Cocky Infant Nyx Ulric being an embarrassing teenage mess.
> 
> There's so much shit in here that's made up whole cloth, but I did a lot more research than I ever thought I would to get a framework to play around inside. If nothing else ... at least there's nothing flat-out _contradictory_ to canon.

_Think of it as expanding your horizons, Cor._ Regis had grinned wide over the ferry's railing, laughter plain in his eyes at the sour look Cor cast in his direction. 

The group of hunters waiting at the foot of the dock were a mismatched lot, appearing to be far less a group of storied warriors than a handful of foreigners lost on their way to Galdin Quay. But for all the beads and sandals and bare, sun-darkened skin, there were plenty of weapons between them -- and those, at least, looked serious enough.

The tallest, oldest-looking of the lot stepped up to the edge of the ferry, offering a dignified bow to Regis as he gestured his liege ashore. The rest of the ferry's crew, lined up along the deck now that they were safely moored, bowed as well, and Cor did his best to contain a sigh as he followed Regis onto the comparatively solid ground of the dock and into unknown territory.

Cor still had plenty of reservations about the whole endeavor. Though the Citadel itself was in Clarus's capable hands (even despite the distraction of a week-old daughter) and Cor fully confident in his ability to protect Regis from anything short of a surprise Imperial dreadnaught barrage, he felt uncomfortably close to vulnerable in a land he did not know, without backup or transportation more advanced than the chocobos corralled near a dune south of the beachhead, well away from a motley row of food stalls and trinket sellers.

\--

"Hope you brought a change of clothes," says the island boy whose stare Cor has deliberately been attempting to ignore for the last several minutes while he watches Regis and the head of their Galahdian escort converse. Cor pretends not to hear him for a few seconds out of nothing more than sheer irritation at the entire situation, but he finally relents, turning to catch a glimpse. 

Tidal pool eyes glitter beneath a slicked back mane of dark hair shaved down along the sides in the local style, beads hanging from a handful of small braids behind his ear that clack softly in time with the steady gait of the mud-hued chocobo beneath him. Deeply tanned shoulders, leanly muscled in the way that promises future breadth in the next few growth spurts; Cor estimates him to be fifteen, sixteen at most. And -- judging by that fierce grin as he stares Cor down -- brimming with attitude.

Cor's attention slides to the blade sheathed at the small of his back, the length of it almost as long as the boy's forearm, then returns to watching Regis's back. "And why is that." 

"Because you're gonna roast in all that black, obviously." Cor supposes he should have expected that; even Regis had shucked off his mantle and suit jacket both once they'd left the last of the coastal breeze behind, draping them over the sweat-stained saddlehorn like he was still the careless princeling Cor had been introduced to all those years ago. 

He huffs a vague sound through his nose, one that he supposes could be interpreted as amusement in a moment of charity. "Are you always so helpful?"

Beside him, he senses that knife-edge grin growing wider. Cor gets the feeling he's being teased, and considers the novelty of the sensation for a moment. Few dare, these days. Regis, certainly, who says he considers it a perk of ruling. Monica, who saves up for those moments when she can _truly_ catch him with it.

"Heard the other hunters say you were some sort of big shot. Just, y'know, figured it'd be a shame to watch someone like that keel over from heatstroke."

Cor shifts the reins from one hand to the other. "Didn't realize the entertainment around here was in such short supply. Next time, I'll bring you a sack of rocks."

That seems to catch the boy off-guard, and he sways slightly in his saddle before breaking into a peal of laughter loud enough to send a few heads turning their way, Regis's included. Cor offers his king a noncommittal shrug, and sees the boy wave in his peripheral vision. "Next time, huh? Could be entertainment all by itself."

"Don't get your hopes up. Neither of us do tricks."

The boy hums. "Dunno about that; _magic_ seems like a pretty neat trick if you ask me." He punctuates it with a wiggle of fingers in Cor's direction, then leans back just a little at what he sees on Cor's face in the silence that follows.

Finally, Cor sighs, as irritated by the disintegration of this odd little conversation as he is by the fact that he can feel the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and down his spine. "Hope you never have to see it, kid. Means shit's hit the fan, and you're about to get splattered."

"My name's Nyx, you know."

"I do now, yes."

"I can--"

" _Nyx_ , by the gods' infinite mercy." Another Galahdian rides up into the space between them, and Nyx's chocobo shies its head away from an aborted attempt to grab at his reins, nearly slipping off the narrow track in the process. "I hope my chatterbox nephew isn't bothering you, Marshal."

Cor looks at the Galahdian, a whip-thin man with soft black eyes and a startlingly quiet voice, who looks worlds away from any sort of relation whatsoever -- and Nyx, currently peering around his shoulder to flash Cor another one of those grins. "It's no bother, no."

"Sorry 'bout that," the man says, as if he hadn't really been listening at all. "C'mon, Nyx, you're on point to the Breakfalls."

The next hour is spent in relative quiet, Cor maintaining his vigil a dozen paces behind Regis while he discusses the state of Lucis and Galahd with their escort, the rest of the entourage arrayed around them in a competent guard formation. Riders swap spots now and again, disappearing into the fog and the thick green foliage ahead only for another to return a few minutes later to join the rearguard behind a chocobo-drawn wagon laden with supplies.

He's only vaguely surprised that Nyx doesn't join the rest behind them when he returns from his duties, instead guiding his chocobo through the formation to fall in line close to Cor again. He looks a bit more somber this time around, eyes clearer and more focused on their surroundings. Cor takes note of the fact with oblique curiosity, but figures he'll hear whatever is needed soon enough.

"Shouldn't be more than an hour or so," Nyx says, and there's something a bit different in his voice now -- calmer, more self-assured. "It's gonna rain, but that's how it is. How're you holding up?"

"I'm fine, Nyx," he replies. Not particularly comfortable with the way his uniform clings to his spine or the insides of his thighs, but he's lived with far worse. Instead, he uncaps his canteen and takes a drink. "You'll have to find your entertainment elsewhere, I'm afraid."

Nyx turns away in a failed attempt to hide his grin. "Nah, I'm cheering for you. Maybe we'll all get to see what you can do tonight, anyway."

Up ahead, Cor sees Regis's head jerk back towards them again, just the flash of a look of utter disbelief and badly-concealed amusement that takes Cor an additional moment to process. Thank every slumbering Astral in existence, Cor thinks, that Clarus is safely tucked away on another continent for this debacle -- almost entirely out of earshot.

"I mean," Nyx says quickly, "it's mating season." Like that explains everything. Cor's irritation spikes in a wave of belated understanding, but Regis still twitches like he's in pain. A pregnant beat, in which Cor deliberates between staring serenely ahead and letting the boy swallow his tongue in merciful peace over his misstep, or indulging in his own _entertainment_ \-- a deadpan stare that offers nothing but oblivious, rapt attention, through which Cor is fairly certain he sees Nyx's soul escape his body in a moment of unfiltered mortification. 

"...for the coeurls." To his credit, Nyx doesn't entirely choke on his barely-audible words, though he wilts as well as anyone Cor's turned the look on. "This is. All, uh… territory. Theirs."

It's not that he enjoys suffering; not really. It's not that he's cruel. It's just that sometimes he remembers what it was like to be young and insufferable, and his foul mood does nothing to improve the recollection. Cor holds that unflinching stare a little longer, then nods. "I see."

He gains at least twelve minutes of peace, with which to remind himself who it was with the bright idea to sweep Lucis's sovereign and protector into a sweltering jungle, apparently filled with lust-addled lightning cats with nothing more than the marshal of his guard and a handful of unknown hunters. (Of course, the person responsible is none other than Regis Lucis Caelum himself, and no amount of meaningful stares have physically drilled through the back of his skull yet in all the years that Cor has tried, so the whole exercise is one of futility.)

"It's not always the coeurls you need to worry about," Nyx chirps soon after, recovered enough from his prior bout of poorly chosen words in the presence of royalty. Only moments later, Cor holds the bridge of his nose pinched tightly between his thumb and forefinger, as the boy asks him to explain a haven.

\--

The campsite is little more than an uneven sprawl of relatively level, open ground, canopied by trees stretching several stories into the sky. Cor studies the paths winding between corrals and patches of flattened earth bordered by log frames, making mental notes of where knuckles of roots break through the humus-strewn soil -- potential hazards, should the camp fall under attack. The undergrowth is thinner here, enough to see a few dozen yards into the forest surrounding them, more or less. Cor wonders if it'll mean anything come nightfall, with nothing more than a lone portable spotlight to dissuade daemons.

The Galahdians don't seem remotely concerned by their vulnerability, at least. A small contingent is busy unrolling canvas tarps over a framework of thin logs, lashing hammocks to poles, two more setting up a proper tent -- more formal lodgings for the king and his guardian. The rest, Nyx included, busy themselves setting up camp. Several times, Cor catches the boy watching him, a faintly impish smile on his face that leads Cor to believe that he's still probably waiting for him to wilt inside his jacket in the evening's relentless humidity.

When he finally makes his way to the tent set aside for the king, he finds Regis with his leg stretched out over a camp stool, massaging his knee with both hands. Cor crouches close by, rummaging through his rucksack until he finds a small field kit. He pulls two pills and hands them to Regis, who dry-swallows them both in one shot, grimacing the whole while.

"How bad is it?" Cor asks, eyes lifting to his king with genuine concern.

"Let's just hope they're not going to propose a hike when we get there," Regis says wryly. "Have you finished raising the battlements so soon?"

"We'd all be the better for it," Cor growls, pushing himself to his feet. After so long on his ass on the back of a wet, stinky bird, it feels good to stretch his legs properly, and he butts his shoulder against the tent's central brace to test its sturdiness before he leans up against it, legs crossing at the ankle. "We're prey out here, Regis. Who knows half of what's prowling around out there?"

"Every man out there does," Regis counters, one long finger jabbing toward the tent wall. "Even your young admirer is a full-blooded hunter, Cor. We'd be no safer surrounded by a squad of your Crownsguard."

"At least then I'd know who--"

"--which is the root of your foul mood, isn't it?" Regis smiles again, the same smile he's wont to turn on his council when he's making a particularly salient point. Cor bares his teeth briefly, then turns away, irritated by the fact that Regis has cut straight through to the truth of the matter and irritated with himself for his reaction -- and irritated, yes, because Regis knows all of this as well as he does.

Cor releases a long breath through his nose, massaging the throbbing point between his eyes, suddenly, inexplicably tired. "It's my duty to protect you, Regis. You can't expect me to just shrug and leave it to strangers. You _can't_."

"I know, old friend. But this is still Lucian soil, remote as it may be, and these _are_ our people. I rely on you as I always have -- but if they believe we are not at risk here, then I trust that, too." Regis waits, and Cor knows from years of experience that he's waiting for Cor's agreement. But those simmering tendrils of irritation are still coursing through his blood, and so he lets the silence stretch into territory that borders on uncomfortable before he opens his mouth again.

"I don't have a 'young admirer'," Cor grumbles, as close to acquiescing as Regis is likely to pry from him before the coming dawn.

Regis's cheerful smile is all but audible in the febrile air of the tent. "Is that so?"

"You heard him, I assume."

"Oh, yes. Bold thing, isn't he?"

Cor snorts. "Arrogant, thick-headed --"

"One and the same, from a certain perspective ... as I believe your younger incarnation might agree." Regis is laughing now, not even bothering to hide the shake of his shoulders as Cor scowls down at his own boots. A fleeting touch of penance, he supposes, for his own insufferable youth -- years Regis needles him over when the opportunity arises, just to ensure Cor knows he hasn't forgotten.

"My younger incarnation is throwing up at your conclusion," Cor says. "Wouldn't be half so amusing to you, if that was _your_ son."

Regis holds up his hands in surrender, looking more relaxed now that the painkillers have taken hold. "As you say."

Cor puts the insinuation out of his mind as the topic shifts, focusing instead on what Regis has learned of Galahd's current state, which seems … surprisingly stable for a territory stripped of the wall's embrace, though Cor can't help but wonder how long that will last. Despite its relatively unprotected status, there's little to recommend the archipelago to Imperial attentions; the difficult terrain and wet weather promises a costly, messy invasion to the Empire's magitek units, and the resources to be gained hardly seem worth the effort. Its economy is largely self-contained beyond modest tourist trade, lacking the sort of exports that would damage Lucis to lose.

Really, the only thing of immediate value is its proximity to Insomnia itself, and even then there are far better options available. Cor imagines that all of these things served as potent enough justification for Insomnia's relative inattention, even before Mors drew back the wall.

Cor also learns that the head of their escort is none other than Geras Ulric -- the _de facto_ leader of Galahd's loose collection of villages and settlements, an old man hastily drawn out of retirement following the unfortunate death of his son during a hunting expedition just shy of six months ago.

It's Nyx that hesitantly scratches at the flap of the tent to announce dinner, leading them to one of the wooden tables that mark the few permanent fixtures of the campsite, where Geras waits at attention. Once they're settled, it's also Nyx that brings them skewers of richly spiced meat wrapped in wide waxy leaves, offered up alongside cups brimming with foamy red ale. He lingers nearby, almost as if waiting further orders, until Geras gently shoos him off to eat and help sort out the night's watch rotation.

"My grandson," the old man explains with an uneven shrug, his steady gaze following the boy as he circles the outer edge of the massive campfire and disappears somewhere beyond the fat plumes of smoke. "He'll lead well, when his time comes."

Cor focuses on his food while Regis leans his chin in his palm, relaxed in a way Cor rarely sees outside the walls of the royal apartments, in the presence of his most trusted friends. "Your position is hereditary?"

"No -- not at all," Geras says with a wolfish grin. "But we Ulrics are exceptionally good at proving our worth. I deeply regret that you were unable to meet my son in person, your Majesty; you'd have been well pleased with him, I'm certain."

Regis bows his head briefly. "I am sorry for your loss, and Galahd's. But we are all grateful for his legacy, as well as his invitation to your shores. We're both honored to be here."

Geras laughs at that, and Cor comes to the grudging conclusion that he could get to like this old man. A bit like Cid, if he'd replaced all his mechanical genius with the barest rumblings of diplomatic grace. "Hold that thought until you tally up the bug bites, gentlemen. There's plenty of track ahead of us."

The conversation devolves at that point, slipping from anything remotely resembling statecraft to Regis and Geras swapping battle stories that grow larger and more ridiculous with each new cup of ale. Cor knows Regis's -- had participated in the vast majority of them, no less -- and so splits his attention between eating and listening to Geras speak of the various forms of wildlife, daemons and rare interlopers that count for marks in the Galahdian archipelago. Some of it, admittedly, sounds like exaggeration; compact garulas with horns the length of a man's arms outstretched, coeurls the color of snow and the size of large trucks, waiting in the limbs of the trees to pounce the unwary.

(Regis matches him here, too, breaking out the near-ancient story of the addled catoblepas they'd encountered near Cauthess and the ensuing fight that had lasted a full eight hours, until Cor and Clarus had spent their last remaining energy on a cross-attack that had ended up in the both of them nearly drowning in a sudden flood of monster intestines.)

It's well past dark by the time Geras suggests they try to get some sleep. If the track is clear and the bridge over the canyon is stable, he promises a fine dinner tomorrow evening at his own table in Metis.

 

\--

 

Cor feels the fine hairs rising on his arms and neck seconds before he hears the tell-tale crackle of electric energy, somewhere uncomfortably close. A very human, very startled yelp is cut off in a surge of discharge that Cor _sees_ light up a patch of the forest some eighty yards further into the forest.

Ozone in the air, a stink he knows all too well. _Fucking_ Galahd. Cor hisses his irritation into the air as he shakes off and shoves his cock back in his pants, reaching out to the armiger with one hand while he zips up with the other. _Can't even piss without something going sideways._

Tracers of white and another sharp crack, good as any beacon as Cor slaps the compact torch on his chest to illuminate the area in front of him. So much for discretion -- and then he's sprinting towards the source of the light, his sheathed blade angled up under the bend of his arm to keep it from snagging on branches and ferns as he shoves his way through them.

And then stops.

Geras hadn't been exaggerating about the coeurls; not about their coloration, and certainly not about their size. And of course, because this wouldn't be a moment in Galahd if it weren't brimming with things to worry about, there's Nyx crouched low to the ground, the wicked edge of his blade thrust out in front of him in a defensive stance even as his bloodied fingers press hard against his left side. 

Between them, the coeurl snarls a warning. Cor shifts as slowly as he dares, readying his weapon. "How bad?"

"Got a piece of me," Nyx whispers, and Cor frowns at the badly-hidden strain in his voice. "The hell are you doing out here?"

For a split second, Cor considers honesty. "Heard some fuss; figured I'd investigate."

Nyx huffs a quiet laugh. "Go back to bed, big guy. I've seen meaner kittens in my kitchen. Somebody's got to have seen the light, anyway."

It'd be funny to Cor, too, if he wasn't concerned about the blood dripping from Nyx's fingers -- if the kid weren't several meters away from him, too far to reach before the coeurl could pounce. If the building charge wasn't crackling around the coeurl's whiskers in visible sparks of heat and light. 

A flicker of a thought, here and gone -- Regis's insinuation like an unwelcome whisper in the back of his mind. From his current perspective, he supposes the behavior … fits. Too bad for Nyx; Cor's seen enough posturing for several lifetimes. Seen enough posturing _end_ lives to be remotely impressed in any case.

The coeurl shifts its weight and lowers itself on its hindquarters, a head the size of Cor's entire torso swinging to glare into the bright beam cast by his lapel light with a snarl of displeasure. _Good_. "Thought you wanted to see what I could do, Nyx," he calls across the space between them, willing his voice to carry as far as the camp, to hold the cat's attention.

(The flash of a grin, there in the edge of the light.)

Cor doesn't allow the massive beast the time to strike first.

He surges forward, blade singing through the air as it slips from the sheath. The cat's pounce is half a heartbeat late in response, and Cor ducks beneath those massive, outstretched paws as he feels his sword drag through fur and flesh, scoring along the inside of a hind leg -- certainly no killing wound, but enough to make a saner creature reconsider this particular prey.

Unfortunately, Galahdian coeurls are just as insane as their mainland kin. On the other hand, Cor notes with almost dispassionate calm as he tucks himself into a roll to avoid the wild flail of those charged whiskers, their attacks are plenty similar. He comes up within arms' reach of Nyx, shaking the blood from his blade before sliding it back into the sheath in preparation for the next pass. "Get back to camp," he snaps.

"It's just a --"

" _Nyx._ " There's no time for argument; the coeurl's angry yowl cuts out to a threatening cough, and it's smart enough not to pounce a second time. Instead, It drops its head and charges, kicking up decaying leaves and spraying dirt with hand-length claws, and Cor darts in to meet it. The clash is bone-jarring, Cor's all-too human strength no match for the big cat's, leaving him to rely on his speed as he weaves his way between swiping paws and magic-imbued whiskers, raking with calculated strikes. A serious opponent, but nothing worth Regis's attention; really, Cor hopes to have the thing bled out by the time his king realizes he's done more than simply get lost on his way to the latrine.

And then a thin, tan figure darts into the beam of light, the brilliant flash of torchlight reflecting off a kukri's blade as Nyx leaps into the fray. Perhaps he's disobedient, but he's also fast, surprisingly agile as he vaults onto the wide blood-flecked back of the coeurl, one hand fisting into fur as the other hacks at the fatty hump between the cat's shoulder blades, to gouge at its spine. Cor bites out a curse as he renews his own attack, careful to avoid the flail of skinny legs and bare feet, his attention snagged briefly on the boy's wild whoop of delight.

The coeurl rears, screaming now -- a moment of fear finally seeping past the fury underneath that thick skull. Cor seizes the opportunity and drives his sword home; the point punches past thick hide, and his own shoulders shriek in protest as he uses every ounce of his momentum to drag the blade upwards towards the ribcage. The stench of wet fur and ozone is nothing compared to the sewer reek of perforated intestines, and Cor gags as he darts past the twisting, panic-stricken coeurl.

He clears the danger zone, comes up on his elbows.

Nyx's victorious shout dies in a crack of noise like gunfire. Like a lightning strike -- like the sound a coeurl's whiskers make, driving into bare skin. And then another noise: the terrible crunch of flesh and bone hitting an immovable surface, then collapsing to the ground.

The coeurl does not rise from where it topples, inert save for the twitch of dully-glowing whiskers, the uneven, instinctive kick of massive forelegs clawing furrows into the earth. Unopposed, it seems like a remarkably easy task to open the big cat's throat with a single weighted push, and Cor sighs as he abandons his blade to the armiger and steps around the corpse in search of his unlucky companion.

Nyx Ulric had never seemed that big on his feet. Crumpled and shaking at the foot of a tree the width of Cor's stupidly oversized desk, he looks positively tiny, washed out and starkly cast in the harsh light. _Fucking Galahd_ , Cor thinks, and there's a pang of sadness to accompany the thought as he kneels down next to Nyx's prone body. Steeling himself, Cor rolls him over with a nudge to his shoulder.

The boy's eyes are blown wide, glassy and unfocused. Tortured, choked-out sounds rattle up through his open mouth. Half his chest is a ruin of charred flesh, burns spiderwebbing out across his belly and over the curve of his shoulder, blackened at the point of impact -- not over the heart, but at this proximity, Cor knows it doesn't matter much. His fingers are tacky with the blood from his side, but Cor supposes that's not even an afterthought, now.

"We got it," Cor murmurs, feeling a grimace pull at his lips as those half-vacant eyes attempt to sharpen and lift toward him. The dry, muted click of Nyx's throat is meant to be a response of some sort, and as much as Cor wants to look away from this unlucky kid -- this _hunter_ \-- in front of him, he won't. Nyx is dying, after all; the fabled, fatal magic wielded by a coeurl isn't anything akin to the spells Regis has inherited, but rather simple electricity, powerful and focused enough to ruin a human body in every way that matters. Blackened lungs can draw no breath. A scorched heart can no longer beat, can no longer even remember its rhythm, and when Cor's fingers find the pulse point he can feel the skipping flutter of it, fading already. If the spirit lingers, it's a temporary, helpless thing, and Cor repeats this to himself in the grim silence of the back of his mind as he touches instead the burning skin of Nyx's forehead.

Nyx's parted lips make it easy to press the plume of red down onto the dry slab of his tongue. Cor ignores the sense of faint, detached curiosity he feels from the boy as he calls a useless elixir to hand, splashing it over seared and slashed flesh alike.

He snarls another curse then, winging the empty vial into the forest, dissatisfied by the sound it makes when it shatters against a tree well outside the spread of light. Broken spines, broken _anything_ means less than nothing, but he still attempts to be gentle when he gathers Nyx's body up in his arms and jogs back towards the camp -- only now hearing the sound of other Galahdians heading their way.

\--

"They're getting Geras now," Cor says, and does not look at Regis when he hears the uneven step-slide of his king's footsteps halt a few paces away. Nyx's blood has glued his fingers together as well, and he tries not to think that in this they have become a matched set. He feels it soaked through the layers of his shirts, warm against his belly, unpleasant in a way few things are. The persistent ache in his arms has nothing to do with the body within them.

Something terrible hovers between them, omen-dark and almost physical; Cor feels it buzz through his skin and swallows, twice.

"How long ago," Regis asks, quiet.

"Three minutes, maybe less."

"A … coeurl." The irony isn't lost on either of them. Regis studies the boy's pale, upturned face. Flinches at what he sees there. Cor catches it from the corner of his eye. "Not quite gone, not yet. Remember the pass? Weskham--"

"Regis, you can't." Finally, Cor lifts his head. "You _can't_."

"Bring him to the tent, Cor."

Regis has a gentle face. It was one of the first things Cor noticed about him back in the beginning -- the difference between this kind-eyed man and his stern, distant father. He's watched the lines and angles of it shift and weather over the years, has seen the myriad expressions carving through those soft features. Joy, grief, all steps in between. For all Cor's pride, he isn't afraid to beg -- and he's begging now, heels dug into the dirt with the campfire licking heat all up his back, afraid in a way no enemy has ever inspired. 

For all the tragedies they wade through, his duty is clear. "You _can't_." 

Regis's smile is softest like this. Benevolent. The ring of the Lucii winks light as he reaches out to grip Cor's shoulder, and Cor finds himself shaking his head mutely, knowing the conclusion is foregone -- that his objective now will be one of speed, to make this _worth_ it. "You're not the only one who'd save him, my friend."

"The risk--"

" _If he were my son_. Your words, yes?"

This time it's Cor that flinches.

 

It doesn't take long, once the argument is over. Cor arranges Nyx's body on his own cot, oddly grateful to see that his consciousness has retreated. Regis rolls up his sleeves to the elbow, then drags the camp stool over. One hand on the boy's forehead, the other over his heart, and Cor breathes a prayer to whatever deity or royal ancestor might be watching over this cursed land and its doomed king, to make this as easy as possible.

Healing magic is unnatural to the Caelum line, but it is possible to twist their power into something close enough to count, despite the resistance. Generations of Lucian royalty have learned to distill it, to infuse a liquid medium to prevent the worst of the personal strain: cans of beer, when Regis thinks he's being funny. Soda, juice, energy drinks. Mors preferred expensive bottles of sparkling waters from Accordan wells, on the rare occasion he chose to spend his energy on more than maintaining the Wall. 

For cuts and breaks and poisons, it's astonishingly effective.

Nyx is well beyond that. And thus, the magic involved must be more concentrated -- more direct, and far more draining. A literal transfer of life energy, Clarus had hypothesized that evening and there had been fear in his voice, after they'd watched Regis throw himself into attempting to save their fifth after an assuredly fatal run-in with an arachnae and all but wither before their eyes in the process.

It had worked, was the thing. But Regis had risen the next morning as though he were five years older, sallow-skinned and hollow around the eyes, flecks of gray in his beard where they had not been before. Startling enough that the next time Weskham had been grievously injured he'd flat refused to let Regis anywhere near him.

Cor doesn't watch his king's face as he channels that terrible magic, looks away from the unearthly glow that briefly suffuses Nyx's skin as it penetrates him, seeking out damage to mend.

Geras Ulric pushes his way into the tent without regard for decorum, his expression one of a man toppled with grief. Cor watches him take in the scene, hesitating a few moments before he rises and joins the old man near the entrance. "My _grandson_."

"There was a coeurl prowling outside the camp. His warning was … prescient," Cor says, more carefully than he otherwise might. "We fought it together."

The old man's arms are curled around his torso, weathered fingers digging into the equally weathered, tattooed skin of his arms. "He was struck, then."

"Yes." Cor watches the way the old man seems to sink into himself at the blunt response. Idly, he thinks about what it would be like to lose a child; for all his own losses, that is a bridge he has not crossed, and likely will never. Seeing what it does to Geras, what the thought alone has done to Regis -- he's grateful for that much. "He was … trying to guard me."

Geras Ulric barks a harsh sound, one that might be mistaken for laughter under better circumstances. Half a sob. "Nyx was the kind, yes."

"Perhaps he will be wiser, when he wakes." Cor watches Geras's face impassively, waiting for realization to cut through the shroud of grief. He's not disappointed: storm-gray eyes snap up to meet Cor's, then turn to Regis.

Cor recognizes the signs of hope, however guarded. "What's he doing with Nyx, Marshal?" It's barely just a whisper; a terrible sound.

There are many things that Cor can say to that, all of them true. He studies his king -- can see, or perhaps imagines hard enough to trick himself into seeing -- the gauntness pulling at his cheeks, the sweat trickling down his temple. "Understand," he says carefully, never a diplomat. "Despite our limitations, Lucis will not abandon Galahd's future."

The old man takes a few steps toward the cot, hesitant. Afraid, maybe, and Cor finds that he can't blame him. He glances back to Cor, shaking his head in a soft clatter of beads. "I don't understand."

"You will, Ulric. Soon enough, I'd imagine."

Two fraught minutes later, Nyx's body heaves a horrifying, sobbing gasp, hands clawing reflexively at the air as his spine arches up and away from the cot. Unconscious still, but Cor knows the rest is, comparatively, fairly simple. Geras sinks down beside Regis, wet-eyed and struggling to contain the vast weight of some emotion Cor can only guess at. Regis smiles -- the faintest twitch at the edge of his lips -- and Cor turns his attention to Nyx and the uneven rise and fall of his still-ruined chest. Wondering, as he must, whether they will come to regret this decision.

\-- 

When dawn comes, the camp breaks in muted silence, careful movement punctuated with barks of relieved laughter. Geras had stepped out after it was clear that the boy was destined to survive, to explain the situation to his people and ensure that holes in the patrol schedule had been filled properly.

It's decided that most of the equipment will be left behind for later recovery, that they'll instead create something of a makeshift bed of the wagon. Cor's grateful for the consideration, no matter how undignified it'll be for Metis to welcome the King of Lucis tucked up against rolls of bedding and luggage like a refugee. Splitting the group for faster travel is considered and quickly dismissed; down a guard already, Geras has no intention of risking Regis's safety further. Nyx is stabilized, more or less; out of danger of immediate death, the trickle of healing magic now centers around rebuilding deep tissue and nerves. Easy enough that Cor, with his clumsy grasp of Regis's magic, can handle the channeling.

Not that he enjoys anything about it. But there'd been no choice and Regis had been on the verge of collapse hours ago, long before he'd allowed Cor to take up the work in his stead. It seems unfair, Cor thinks, that he'll bear none of the cost beyond the usual exertion -- that even with his hand now centered against Nyx's freshly scarred sternum, it's Regis's life still trickling away in exchange. On one hand, he's not sure he has it in him to sacrifice any fragment of his own life like that for a stranger, no matter how young or well-intentioned. On the other ... he would not hesitate, if it meant shielding Regis from any of it.

When it's time to go, Cor follows his king into the diffuse morning light with a sense of foreboding. As expected, Regis looks diminished in his day-old suit, fresh streaks of steely gray at his temple as he braces himself with his cane, ragged and exhausted. How much time did Regis lose, this time? How much damage done?

Cor shifts Nyx's body in his arms as he steps up next to his king. "I hope you'll be able to sleep," he says quietly, and forces himself to hold Regis's watery gaze when he turns it on him.

"It's all right, Cor. I should be fine by the time we reach the capital."

Cor frowns. "I don't think anyone's going to blame you if you aren't. You look like you've been rolled by a kujata." That part's true, on both counts. Regis looks like hell, but Cor wouldn't know it from looking at the Galahdians, many of whom have taken to staring at the king when they aren't actively busy with undisguised awe. He's won them: if it weren't true before, it is now. How could it be otherwise? Their king bears the proof of his commitment like scars.

"Charming as always, Cor -- what would I do without you?"

"Quite a bit worse, I'd imagine."

Regis laughs, then takes a moment to glance over Nyx -- far better now, save for the thin layer of skin stretched concave over his right breast, startlingly dark in the center of that web of scar tissue. "Tough kid."

Cor finds he doesn't have anything sarcastic to add to that, and eventually nods. "You were right, I suppose. Fought well enough."

"He tried to protect you -- truly, Cor?"

Cor shrugs, a little awkwardly beneath the additional weight. Just ahead, Nyx's "uncle" and another Galahdian are adding one last layer of blankets to the bed of the wagon. "He was already injured when I found them. Wouldn't go -- got up on the damned thing's back and tried to carve it open while we fought."

Regis breathes a tired laugh. "Close enough to count, I'd say. How gallant."

"I believe," Cor says, "the word you're looking for is _foolish_."

"I seem to recall a boy once," Regis murmurs, "eager to prove himself. Threw himself at everything -- needed plenty of patching up, himself."

Cor glances at Regis coolly, letting his attention linger on the tremble of his hands atop the cane, quietly distressed by the sight. "Not like this."

"No," the king agrees, pushing himself into motion as the Galahdians wave them forward. "But your luck is better than most."

 _Sure doesn't feel like it,_ Cor thinks bitterly.

\--

The wagon is only marginally more miserable than the back of a chocobo. Four hours into the journey, and his backside is wholly numb, his spine a twisted column composed more of jolts and shocks than bone at this point, he's certain. The King of Lucis lies next to him, the back of his head butted up against the outside of Cor's thigh, half-lost in a sea of old blankets and shivering despite the balmy temperature; if it weren't for the years and the circumstances, Cor might be reminded of their journey nearly two decades ago, too many overgrown bodies tucked into caravans and backseats, scrounging for whatever rest might be found. At least no one's accusing him of being a child, this time around.

He supposes that honor would go to Nyx -- a claim as incorrect now as it was back then. The young hunter is leaning against Cor's chest, ear pressed over his collarbone, half-cradled in the crook of Cor's arm for lack of a better long-term option. Beneath the shivery sensation of the magic, Cor can feel the rise and fall of Nyx's chest beneath his fingertips with each breath. The unnatural, hollowed out shape where the meat had been scorched away has slowly filled back out, lifting glossy pink scar tissue to mar the once-smooth plane of muscle and skin.

Better than the alternative, Cor supposes, and breathes a quiet grunt of discomfort as he shifts on his tailbone, a futile attempt to work sensation back into his legs. The motion is enough to disturb Nyx, and he goes still as his brow furrows and eyes move beneath lowered lids. Nyx's fingers tremble a little as they stretch out to their full length; Cor notices, for the first time, the tattoo that runs from knuckle to nail.

A few moments later that hand curls into Cor's shirt, and he just barely catches the faint, brief quirk of a smile.

Cor counts to three hundred, then sighs. "Will you pretend to sleep the whole way?" Barely enough to be heard over the squeak and rattle of the wagon.

"Might," Nyx breathes, and for a second Cor is afraid he might be telling the truth. "'s nice here."

_Well._

\--

The fall of Galahd is a surprise, for the timing if not the inevitability. It shouldn't be; there's not much left to stop the Imperial creep now that it's begun again, and the situation is dire enough that Regis has been slowly bleeding the prince's Glaives dry in the Lucian countryside. He's long past sparing with the well of his magic, though his body has grown largely incapable of wielding it on his own. The thing killing Regis is nothing that Cor or Clarus can fight, though they both do what they can.

Cor had been witness to the guilt Regis struggled with in the months that followed -- between the news and the solution. And it was a bit vulture-ish, wasn't it? Like politics, like any other fucking thing involved in trying to hold this besieged kingdom together. _Give us your sons and daughters, and we'll watch over what's left of you._

Necessity is an ugly thing, Cor thinks. A perfect match, then, to the world they inhabit.

He wonders if Geras Ulric lives, or if Nyx has ascended to take his place -- but not hard enough to ask He'd found he liked Metis, with its winding streets and its small but colorful populace, all vibrant colors and different aromas on every block. A place that felt out of time as much for the ways it resembled Lucis as the ways it _didn't_. He liked the _Ulrics_ and the disconcertingly cozy sprawl of their estate, Geras's widowed daughter swinging back and forth between worrying over her recovering son and trying to ply their two-man entourage with food and drink every time talks fell into a lull. 

Clarus shifts uneasily on Regis's other side. Cor knows he doesn't care much for the idea of the Kingsglaive even years later, and likes it even less that they're not his to wield. That the newest of its recruits are from relatively foreign, all but _abandoned_ territory is just one more thing to stoke his fears.

(Cor gave up on worrying too much about all of that long ago. Problems arise, and he tackles them. Resources present themselves, and are used accordingly. It keeps the headaches to a minimum.)

Arrayed behind Captain Drautos in the throne room are the better part of a dozen new glaives. Cor finds himself studying each one as Regis plods through his welcome speech, searching the lesser-touched archives of his own mind to match what and who he can. Mostly, it's a futile effort, but there's familiarity in the dark complexion of a man who announces himself as _Pelna Khara_. The uncle, Cor thinks -- the marks are there, in the seriousness of those hooded eyes, in the angle of his features. Toward the end of the line, next to one of the rare women in the lineup ( _Crowe Altius_ , and there's a fight in her eyes he can't help but admire), there's a broad-faced, broader-shouldered man with a pinched expression and braids in his hair. Cor can't recall his name -- but he does remember what his younger face looked like, twisted with worry as his friend was lowered from the back of a wagon in the arms of an absolute stranger. _Libertus Ostium_ \-- yeah, that sounds right.

It's not surprising then, to recognize the man beside _him_. Six years, no matter what it _feels like_ , isn't so much time at all.

And Nyx Ulric hasn't changed, in many ways. A little taller, yes. Broader in the ways he was always destined to be. Thinner in the face, scruffy now in a way that somehow doesn't conflict with the sleek silhouette of his uniform. The precise vacancy of a survivor's shock, and the signs of the scars forming to shield it in the shadows around his eyes. Hard knowledge carved into the creases of his brow as his stare tracks Regis's slow path up and down the line. Cor notes that he's gained both tattoos and scars in the meantime. He notes, too, the look of hope and affection on Nyx's face as he listens to Regis speak; Regis has that effect on people, yes, but Nyx's history is more personal than most, and Cor isn't remotely surprised to see it.

As if sensing Cor's attention, Nyx's head tilts, and he turns the full weight of those blue eyes on Cor. He remembers a boy, a _hunter_ wearing his responsibilities with uncommon joy and the indifference of one assured in their own life. He remembers … impressions. Char and blood and ozone thick in the air. A heartbeat stopped, and then returned. The vague scrape of fingernails as skinny fingers curled into his shirt. 

A life snatched from the jaws of death, at terrible cost. 

Today, here in the dusty light of the throne room, Cor sees a soldier.

Nyx smiles, a minute tilt of his lips that softens every hard angle, a change so abrupt that Cor feels his own breath stutter to a halt in his throat -- caught off-guard by the shift as much as his own reaction to it. The span of a few unhurried heartbeats are given to direct, unabashed acknowledgement, an unspoken demand that Cor answer in kind. 

Cor relents with a bare tip of his head. Nyx's eyes lower briefly, then raise to Regis again. That smile lingers, pleased and self-assured. 

Cor allows himself a moment to consider the change, then turns his attention to the next recruit in line, quietly shaken in a way he isn't sure how to define. The feeling persists well beyond the ceremony itself, past the time it takes for he and Clarus to discreetly escort their exhausted king back to the royal apartments. Easy enough to dismiss in the aftermath, when questions of logistics and coded messages from beyond the wall swallow up any opportunity for reflection.

Galahdians settle Insomnia, a trickle of refugees no longer capable of handling their occupation, seeking protection where they can no longer be abandoned. In the halls, in the tabloids, Cor notices the swell of discontent. As stupid as any other thing, but he supposes that's what comes of sheltered people running low on soft places to lash out. He wonders how long it'll take for these glaives to come to the conclusion that they might as well have taken their chances back home, even as he's grateful for their skill.

Life goes on, more or less -- a year or two spent churning mud and digging graves in an effort to hold back the Empire. The war grinds relentlessly forward, and on occasion people crawl back from its maw. New faces in the Citadel become familiar, guard and glaive both, fledgling units weeded out until veterans remain. Until Cor can recall the names (both real and earned) attached to the silent soldiers manning the doors, or guarding his back as he slips into some Nif refuge or another. Routine, the tidal push and pull of his existence, ceaseless as the waves lapping at the shore and just as comfortable.

Until late one spring evening, when he's stopped by the brief touch of a hand against his shoulder, there beneath the floodlight of the parking garage elevator. Nyx is lucky that Cor possesses the self-control he does: that instead of a blade through the ribs, he receives a cool, questioning stare.

That smile rises to the surface again -- the one he's heard warned about in certain floors of the Citadel, the one he remembers -- but this time Cor sees it coming.

"Have dinner with me tonight," Nyx says, a little breathless in the request. His braids catch on the stiff collar of his jacket as he tilts his head, and for a moment Cor's attention is pinned there. "Please say yes."

In the moment, Cor can't think of a single reason to say no.

**Author's Note:**

> The good stuff's up next, I promise, as well as at least two other branches: a companion-slash-reflection piece to _close to the ground_ , and the, uh, inevitable canon-compliant conclusion fic because apparently I hate myself very much.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I tend to handwave a ton of the worldbuilding aspects of settings I write in, but I also kinda ... like fleshing things out? And holy heck is there a lot of fleshing out to be done with Eos; I swear every time I try make sense of one thing, another just casually falls apart. 8(


End file.
